


Turn My Life Around

by questionsleftunanswered



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Coffee Shops, Daddy Kink, M/M, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy John, barista
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, newly a drop-out of Cambridge University, works at Speedy's to earn back his place consulting with Lestrade's team. Dr. John H. Watson, trauma surgeon at St. Bartholomew's, stops in for his morning coffee. A slipped cup of hot coffee puts Sherlock on the older doctor's radar. (Currently paused so I can focus on my NaNoWriMo. This story will continue after November. Thank-you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Currently paused so I can focus on my NaNoWriMo. This story will continue after November. Thank-you.

For Sherlock, it was always the drugs. 

He was curled up in his bedroom at Mycroft’s house, plush pillows surrounding him. Mycroft stood beside the bed, a cup of organic, herbal tea in his hand. 

“Brother, you have to drink this,” Mycroft chided. 

“Fuck off.” Sherlock covered his head with the blanket and burrowed further into the duvet. 

Mycroft set the tea on the side table and sat in the armchair beside the bed. He folded his hands in his lap, the image of poise and grace. 

“They won’t let you go back,” he started. “I tried—”

“Good.”

Mycroft sighed, both at being cut off and his brother’s reaction to being thrown out of Cambridge. 

“You can look at other options. I have connections at Oxford, perhaps that would be a better fit for you?”

“I don’t want to go and sit through their mindless lectures with rooms packed full of idiots.”

“Yes, I know Sherlock!” Mycroft raised his voice. “You would rather skip an entire semesters’ worth of lectures to get appallingly high at regular intervals and force me to identify you in a hospital because you’ve overdosed.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, Mycroft,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Did you have to leave your precious office to come and get pathetic baby brother? How horrible, but so validating for your ego. Rest assured, you are always going to be the more successful of the two of us.”

Mycroft waited before continuing, “I have found you a flat and a job. I expect you to maintain both.”

Sherlock balked at the idea. “I don’t want a job. I am perfectly fine working with Lestrade.”

“Not anymore you aren’t. I’ve told Lestrade that he isn’t to let you in on any cases until you’ve completely cleaned up. The job is merely a way of getting you on a standard schedule and adjusted to responsibilities of regular people.”

“I don’t want some posh disaster. I won’t live there.”

“Do you remember Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock raised his head at this, turning to stare at his brother.

“You’ll be living at Baker Street and working at Speedy’s.” Mycroft sat back looking very self-satisfied. 

Sherlock hmpfed and dropped his head again. However, he didn’t pull the blanket back over, and Mycroft took that as a good sign. 

***

After the detox and subsequent forced stay at Mycroft’s, Sherlock was pleased to be released into the gentle care of Mrs. Hudson. She showed him up to 221B and busied herself opening curtains and vaguely swatting at the dust that burst from them. 

“Now don’t you worry about rent or anything, dear,” she assured. “Your brother has taken care of that for you.” 

Sherlock merely nodded. He turned and let his eyes sweep over the piles of boxes from his previous flat at uni. Everything seemed to be there, packed away neatly and no doubt free of any substances deemed unacceptable by his insufferable big brother. 

“Now I’m not your housekeeper, mind,” Mrs. Hudson said, grabbing his attention. “I did tidy up a bit before you got here and made sure all your dishes are clean that that there was food in the fridge for you. I don’t do it all the time, though. Mycroft made it clear this was supposed to be you getting back on your feet.”

She walked to him and took both of his hands in hers. “Between me and you, dear, I think you’re going to be just fine. I remember when you were so small and kept getting into scrapes with the other boys. You just got right back up and kept going.” 

Mrs. Hudson pat his hand before leaving him to unpack, citing her hip and apologizing for not staying to help a bit more. 

Sherlock unpacked slowly, organizing his books, socks, and carefully unpacking all the glassware needed for his experiments. To a lesser man, it would look like he was preparing to cook his own methamphetamine. However, Sherlock had more important things to use his equipment for. Presently, it was various types of ash. 

He opened the fridge and scowled when there wasn’t any room for the forearm that he had been hoping to save for next Saturday. Without means of storing it, Sherlock set the experiment up and began testing. 

He didn’t notice the time until Mrs. Hudson was knocking on his door to remind him that his shift at Speedy’s started in an hour and did he want any coffee before heading to his first big day. 

He put on a pair of fitted black trousers and a pale blue shirt, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s comment about flour getting on his trousers as he swept past her to join the hateful masses. 

***

Sherlock, surprisingly, loved being a barista. He hated the people, of course. However, they gave him an easy way to practice his deductions. He was also quickly becoming familiar with different types of coffee beans as far as texture and smell and roast produced. He considered turning that into another one of his experiments. 

Mrs. Hudson was in the back baking pastries and humming to herself and she spread the flour out. She would occasionally smile and give Sherlock a little wave of encouragement. He found that he didn’t entirely loathe the gesture. 

Measuring pumps of chocolate for a mocha latte, Sherlock was mumbling deductions about the customer under his breath. 

“45 to 50, mechanic, regular latte drinker, not so regular to Speedy’s, has two kids, trying to put them both through school, coffee is one of the only indulgences,” Sherlock mumbled. He hardly realized that he was saying everything out loud, focusing on the deduction and mindlessly making the drink. 

Molly, the girl who was supposedly training him, said, “That’s brilliant.”

Sherlock snapped out of his trance-like state to stare at her. 

“That thing that you’re doing, watching people and learning about their lives,” she continued. “That’s a really valuable thing to be able to do.”

“I know,” was Sherlock’s only answer. 

Molly nodded, blushed, and got on with her work. It was obvious early on that Sherlock was a fast learner. By the time they went over the morning opening duties and the early rush began to trickle in, she had left Sherlock on his own to work the register and serve drinks. 

It was around 9am when Sherlock first spotted him. He had stopped muttering his deductions, annoyed by Molly’s sidelong looks of awe every time she caught a sentence. 

Before the man had even made it to the counter, Sherlock knew what he wanted. 

“Morning,” the man said brightly. “Can I get a large black coffee, please?” The sunlight glinted in his blonde hair, making the grey streaks stand out a bit. His teeth were perfectly white and straight, suit pressed within an inch of its life and tailored to fit perfectly.

He laid some money on the counter and took out his phone. Sherlock left the change sitting there and went to pour his coffee. _Doctor_ , Sherlock’s mind supplied, _surgeon, very successful, this is a paperwork day, reading emails, gets a coffee here every morning, single, bisexual_ , _gorgeous_. 

Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a halt at the last one. He reassessed _gorgeous_. The man was handsome, to be sure. He had crisp, blue eyes, a sure, confident smile, and was clearly fit under that suit. 

Paying more attention to thinking about the doctor, Sherlock didn’t realize he was still pouring coffee until the hot liquid splashed onto his hand. He gasped at the burn and dropped the coffee pot, stepping back as it shattered onto the floor. Molly, standing only a few feet away chatting with a customer, jumped at bit at the sound. 

“Oh god!” the doctor exclaimed. He was quickly reaching over the counter to Sherlock, just out of reach. “Let me see your hand.” 

Sherlock, still surprised at the burn, automatically extended his burned hand. The doctor took it gently and examined the skin without touching. 

“You need to get a bowl of cold water and let that rest in it for a while. Not ice, though.” He nodded towards Molly and she went off to get it. 

Mrs. Hudson came rushing out, “I heard a crash!” 

“It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock assured her. “I just got distracted and spilled some coffee.”

Mrs. Hudson took in the scene and nodded. “The cost of that pot is coming out of your pay cheque.” 

She turned to go and Sherlock called back to her, “Just bill my brother.”

The doctor smiled at this and finally released Sherlock’s hand. Molly came up with a bowl of water just as instructed. The doctor gently placed Sherlock’s hand into it. 

The relief was immediate. Sherlock sighed and relaxed shoulders he didn’t realize were tensed. 

“That’s better,” the doctor said smiling. “John by the way, my name is John.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. He gestured towards John’s phone, the screen still lit on the counter. 

John looked down at it before smiling. “My email signature.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Can you come sit with me? I have some time and would still like to enjoy that coffee. Besides, you don’t seem to be in any position to make his long line of people drinks.” John turned and gestured to the mostly empty café. Two other tables were occupied and no one was in line. 

Molly jumped in, “Go ahead, Sherlock. I can tidy this up. It’ll be good, you can just owe me a closing chores or something.”

She gave John a fresh coffee before grabbing a dust pan and bending over. “I mean,” Molly quickly remembered, “When your hand is better. I don’t mean you will have extra work tonight. Unless that is ok with you. Just whenever, really.” Molly blushed scarlet and focused on getting the bits of shattered coffee pot off the tiles. 

Sherlock moved around the counter, carrying the bowl of water with him. He joined John at a table. 

“How is your hand?” John asked. 

“About as good as your shoulder,” Sherlock quipped. 

“My shoulder?”

“Well, considering your shoulder is healed, my hand is a great deal worse. However, you did sustain something worse than a minor coffee burn, so I really got the better deal here.”

“And what about my shoulder is worse than your hand?”

Sherlock smiled, this was perfect. This is what he was good at. 

“You were shot there,” Sherlock stated simply. “Limited range of movement. It doesn’t impair your ability to be a surgeon, but you had to work hard to move beyond that tremor. It hasn’t made an appearance in nearly ten years, but you still worry about it. Afghanistan, I’d imagine. You were probably given a medal for it before you were invalided out. Had to fight your way back into practice, but you’ve been successful for many years. Joined the army with a medical degree when you were 26, got shot when you were around 32, was fully rehabilitated around 35 and reopened your practice. It has been successful for years. I’d guess you’re around 45 now?”

“That was amazing,” John replied. 

“Really?” Sherlock tried to hide his confusion. 

“Really. Absolutely amazing.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“And what do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughed at this, his eyes sparkling as he looked Sherlock up and down. 

“How does someone as smart as you end up working as a barista?” John took a sip of his coffee and looked at Sherlock expectantly. 

“I don’t like university. Being a detective is much more fun, but I have to work here before my stupid brother will let the DI I work with let me back in on cases.” If Sherlock’s hand hadn’t been in a bowl of water, he would have crossed is arms. As it was, he settled into a slouched sulk. 

“A detective? I can imagine you’re invaluable to crime solving. Do you work for the Met?” 

“No. As if I would let myself be beholden to their bureaucracy.” Sherlock noted John’s comment that he was invaluable. Aware of this, but somehow pleased that this man knew it as well. “I’m a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me.”

“Brilliant.” John smiled and finished off his coffee. 

Sherlock felt something swell at the openly given compliments. 

John checked his watch and got up to throw the empty cup in the nearest bin. 

“I’m really sorry, but I have to run,” John said. He handed Sherlock a card. “Here is my information, office number, email and all that. Please call me if your hand isn’t any better soon. I’d hate to be responsible for any problems you might have.” 

John took a pen out of his breast pocket, sleek black with gold accent, expensive. He scribbled something on a napkin before giving that to Sherlock as well. 

“This is my mobile number if you need to reach me for something and I’m not in the office.” 

With a smile and a wink, he was gone; turning out of the shop and heading down the street. 

Sherlock looked down at the card in his hand. Dr. John H. Watson, MD. Trauma Surgeon, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He pocketed it and took his hand out of the water. Shaking it off a bit, he examined the burn. It wasn’t bad. Perhaps, thought, he could work his way into getting off the rest of the day. 

Predictably, Mrs. Hudson doted on him and let him go up to his flat early, calling in another boy, Billy, two hours early. 

***

Sherlock lay on the sofa, his phone in the pocket of his dressing gown. The card with John’s office number along with the napkin resting in the pocket opposite. 

He considered calling it multiple times, eventually scrunching it up and tossing it into the kitchen. After several long moments, he got up, fetched the napkin and card rolled within it, smoothed them both out, and put them both back in his pocket. 

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. John would be out of the office by now. He had asked that Sherlock call him. Surely letting him know that his hand was feeling much better counted as news? 

Sherlock clicked the time again. Perhaps John was having dinner? It would be rude to interrupt. Then again, when did he ever care about what was rude or not.

Deciding, Sherlock dialed the mobile number. He put it on speaker and rested the phone on this chest. 

“Hello?” John picked up. 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, prompting a more confused, “Hello?” from John. 

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said. 

“Oh, Sherlock! Right? Barista from this morning?” John said. Sherlock could hear him moving around. 

“Yes. Was I so forgetable, Doctor?”

“Not at all. I’m just used to getting random calls. Wanted to make sure it was the one I’ve been waiting for.” John said smoothly. 

Sherlock couldn’t help a smile creeping across his face. “You’re very worried for someone you’ve hardly met.”

“You seem to know everything about me, I think it is only fair I get to know everything about you.” John paused, his movements slowed. “Are you busy this evening? I know it is getting rather late, but I haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not busy, no.” Sherlock grabbed the phone and took it off speaker. Holding it to his ear, he strode into his bedroom and opened his closet. “Are you asking me out to dinner, Doctor?”

“John, please. And I am if you are willing to accompany me.” 

“Where and when?”

They ended up meeting at a little restaurant that served an eclectic mix of things. John was already there when Sherlock arrived. In a fitted sweater and dark jeans, he looked relaxed and alert. Sherlock was glad he changed into the deep red button down and thought to grab a jacket to wear. Anything less would look uncomfortable next to John’s easy style. 

John stood when he saw Sherlock enter and a grin spread across his face. “Glad you could make it.”

Sherlock smiled and offered his unburnt hand, not entirely sure what was customary in this situation. John shook it and they both sat down. 

“How is your hand doing?” John asked. 

Sherlock held it up. Mrs. Hudson had wrapped it in gauze and ointment. It still stung if he bumped it against anything, but the blisters weren’t bad and should be gone within the week. Sherlock told John such, and he seemed pleased. 

“Good to hear,” John said. “I didn’t think it would be that bad, but I was concerned anyway.” 

They ate a pleasant meal and exchanged light banter. Sherlock told John about Mycroft and was pleased to learn John had his own fair share of sibling problems. 

“The alcohol owns her,” John said. “As a doctor that’s difficult because I have facilities at my disposal that would be able to help her.”

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his wine. He didn’t mention his own association with addiction.

When they both finished and their plates were cleared away, John ordered a coffee and slice of cheesecake. He pointed to Sherlock and looked inquiringly at him. 

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Sherlock shook his head and John sent the waiter off. 

“Are you not ordering anything only to then eat half of my cheesecake?” John joked. 

“I have another desert in mind.” Sherlock had said the words before thinking them over. 

“Do you now?” John asked. His demeanor changed. He subtly shifted out of cordial, lightly flirtatious doctor into something darker, a bit more predatory. “How old are you, Sherlock?”

“Twenty.” 

“And you know how old I am?”  

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was low, but confident. “Old enough to be my father.”

John nodded at that. They were silent until John’s coffee and cheesecake were brought to him. He ate slowly. John didn’t offer any to Sherlock and the younger man knew better than to ask. 

When he was finished, the plate was cleared away. 

Before a cheque could even be brought, John was pulling out a shining stainless steel Visa Black Card. A match for the one that was settled in Sherlock’s wallet. He handed it to the waiter and sent him away again. 

“Dinner is on me,” John said. 

“Thank you.” 

“Are you busy tomorrow morning?”

Sherlock raised one delicate eyebrow. “Do you have plans for me tomorrow morning?”

“I might have plans for you tonight.”

“That’s rather forward and presumptuous of you, Doctor. Assuming I would go home with you on the first night?”

“Is it, though?”

“Not at all.”

The waiter brought back John’s card and they settled the bill. John stood and Sherlock followed suit. He withdrew keys from his pocket and let Sherlock walk through the restaurant ahead of him. He didn’t bother hiding his appreciation of how Sherlock’s arse looked in those trousers, and, by the look of the other patrons, it didn’t go unnoticed. 

They got to the door and John stepped forward to open it, waiting for Sherlock to go through. 

“Is that a yes?” John asked. 

“I think, perhaps,” Sherlock began, “That we ought wait for another night. Wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

“If you think I’m going to try to buy you, then you’re exactly right. Gorgeous young thing with a mind like that. I’d be a fool to not try and hold on to you.”

“Doctor Watson, you must know I can’t really be bought.” 

“We’ll see.”

Then John stepped into Sherlock’s space and rested a strong hand on his hip. Though the younger man was a head taller, there was no question who was in control. John settled his other hand at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, drawing him down for a kiss. It was commanding, but there was no intensity or demand to it. Sherlock melted. 

A soft sound slipped out and Sherlock flushed. He was no virgin, but still on the more inexperienced side of things. Certainly less experienced than John. 

“You would be such a good boy for me. Wouldn’t you, Sherlock?” John asked. There wasn’t force behind the words. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. In another slip of the tongue that was becoming more and more frequent around John, Sherlock added, “Daddy.”

John kissed him again. To anyone observing from inside the restaurant, it would look like a regular couple ending their night. Perhaps more kissing than was tasteful, but nothing particularly untoward. 

“Come with me,” John said. 

“I really shouldn’t. I have work tomorrow morning as well and my understanding is that shagging on the first date generally doesn’t look good.” 

John nodded and took his hands off Sherlock. “Of course. Whatever you are most comfortable with.” 

He stuck his hand out and a cab pulled over to them.

John handed Sherlock a £20 note saying, “At least let me pay to make sure you get home safely?” 

“I really don’t need it. I have money for a cab home.”

“Please take it. And text me when you get home? It’ll make me feel better knowing.” 

Sherlock took the money and promised that he would let John know when he was safely back at Baker Street. John nodded, satisfied. 

He kissed Sherlock one last time before closing the door and watching the cab drive away. 

***

The next morning, Sherlock replaced the bandages on his hand and went down to open the shop, unprompted by Mrs. Hudson. 

At 7am, John walked through the door. He was impeccably dressed, again. Sherlock smiled at him, but was in the middle of talking to another client. It was the morning rush and the line touched the door.

John merely sat down at a window table and opened a newspaper. He calmly read it as the steady stream of people slowed. By 9am again, there was a bit of a lull. Molly was wiping down the splattered bits of coffee from the counter and Sherlock went to restock cups and lids. 

John finally approached the counter. Sherlock emerged to see Molly smiling and, god forbid, flirting with John. He put the extra materials in their allotted places and went about busying himself with wiping down a counter that was already clean. 

He heard John walk over to him, could practically feel the older man’s eyes on him. 

“Sherlock, good to see you again,” John greeted. 

“And you, sir.” 

The corner of John’s mouth quirked at the title.

“I see you got home alright.” John still had the genial expression, but there was a slight edge to his words. 

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered. “I forgot to text you.” 

“You did. I was worried sick all night about it.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you any worry.”

“That sounds like a clever way of avoiding apologizing.” John accepted a coffee from Molly and she sense immediately that this was not a conversation either participants wanted to share with her.

“Would you join me for dinner again this evening, Sherlock? If you are comfortable, perhaps at my home?”

“Of course, sir.” Sherlock dropped the towel into a water bucket and slid it out of the way. “I get out of here around noon. You don’t get off until 6pm, but you usually stay until 7pm anyway. That’s why last night you had dinner so late.” 

“Brilliant, as ever.” John licked his lips. “How about you meet me at mine around 9pm this evening? Is that agreeable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will text you the address.” John turned to leave, hesitated, and turned back. “And Sherlock, I want you to know that even though you are coming to my home, you are under no obligation to stay the night.”

“I know.” Sherlock replied. John gave him a look and Sherlock amended, so only John could hear, “I know, Daddy.” 

After John left, Sherlock was distracted the rest of the day. He was stuck going through the motions of making people coffee and fetching croissants and muffins. Molly tried to talk to him a few times before finally understanding that Sherlock really wasn’t in the mood to be talked to. Mrs. Hudson asked him more than once what was wrong, but Sherlock didn’t volunteer any information. 

When noon came and he was released, Sherlock bolted up to his flat without a good-bye. He spent the new few hours waiting for John’s text and working on his experiment. The forearm had begun to go a bit sour, so he had to work quickly. 

When the text finally came, Sherlock was too engrossed in his experiment to notice. 

 

I called you a cab. It will get you at 8:30pm.

Already paid for. JW

 

I would appreciate a reply and

to make sure you are still coming. JW

 

It was 7pm when Sherlock finally finished. He left bits to sit overnight, pleased with the amount of work he was able to get done. He clicked his phone screen to see what time it was before freezing at the texts from John. 

 

I’m still coming. SH

I’m sorry for not answering. SH

I am still allowed to come? SH

 

Sherlock held his phone and held his breath. Finally, a response came through. 

 

Cab. 8:30pm. 

Don’t miss it. JW

 

Sherlock got up to get ready. He took a thorough shower and spent ages putting product in his hair to get the curls to lay just right. He wore black trousers and a matching black jacket, a deep plum shirt underneath. By 8:15pm, he was wrapped in his scarf and coat, sitting on the step waiting for the cab John sent to get him. 

Pulling up to John’s home in Mayfair, Sherlock mapped how far the doctor seemed to live from Mycroft. It was the span of a few blocks. 

Sherlock got out of the cab, not bothering trying to pay. He stood on the pavement and took at his phone, not sure which place was John’s. A door opened directly in front of him, and John stood backlit by the house. 

“Well, are you going to come in or just stand there ringing me?” John said with a smile. 

Sherlock pocketed his phone and went up the few stairs. “I didn’t see your texts earlier. I was busy with an experiment.”

“Why don’t we discuss this in the house, rather than here on the front step?” John stepped into the house, leaving Sherlock to follow him. 

The home was tastefully decorated; simple and modern. John led Sherlock straight through to the back of the house into a kitchen fitted with all stainless steel appliances. 

“Can I get you something to drink? I was thinking of making pasta, if that’s alright with you.” John was opening a cabinet, withdrawing wine glasses. 

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Sherlock replied. He was busy trying to discreetly look around, deducing what he could from the place without being overt about it. 

“I can see your synapses firing,” John teased. “Tell me, what does my home tell you about me?”

“Flat in Mayfair means money, but I already knew that. It is decorated simply, but still modern and in style. I’d assume that most would just open a magazine and pick out whole rooms to model after, but this place has a personal touch. So either you did pick a room from a magazine and your style has just gradually rubbed into the home, or you carefully designed it yourself. There are three bedrooms in your flat total, and you prefer it being on the first floor. You sleep in the ground floor bedroom and reserve the others for if you have guests coming to stay. Briefly had someone else living with you. They occasionally used an extra bedroom, but moved out quickly after that.” 

“Brilliant.” John set the two glasses of wine on the counter and pulled Sherlock to him. “You’re marvelous.”

John was kissing him before the smile could push forwards. Sherlock hummed against his lips and one hand settled low on his hip. 

The kiss was broken by John stepping back and taking a sip of his wine. 

“One of those could become your room, if you’d want it.” John offered. 

“You’re asking me to move in with you? This is only our second dinner.” Sherlock wasn’t terribly keen on the idea of leaving Baker Street. He had become rather attached to the flat since moving in. “Besides, if I were to stay here, wouldn’t I just sleep in your bed?” 

“My bed is yours, you already know that.” John set his glass aside and took Sherlock’s hand, turning it over and inspecting the gauze. “How is it?”

“Better. I can probably go without the wrap on it tomorrow.” 

“Good. That’s good to hear.” John released his hand and stepped away, clearly intending Sherlock to follow. “Would you like the tour?” 

John walked Sherlock through the kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. He showed him how one bedroom had actually been converted into a study and the other he didn’t even bother going in. 

“Now that we’ve established that my room would be yours whilst you’re here, I don’t think there is any need to go in there.” 

Sherlock nodded and bit his tongue. He was curious, now. Desperate to see and learn from the room that had temporarily been John’s former lover’s. 

John stopped before a plain, white door. He pushed it open and stepped in. Sherlock followed and took in the scene. A massive four poster bed rested above a plush red carpet. The sheets were a matching crimson. Doors led off to what Sherlock assumed were the bathroom and a closet. There was a window seat in one wall; the window looking out onto the street. Heavy curtains were pulled halfway to either side, clearly meant to block out wandering eyes when pulled shut. 

John flicked the light on and closed the curtains before settling strong hands on Sherlock’s waist and walking him backwards to the bed. Settling him there, John straddled Sherlock’s hips. 

The weight was delicious and Sherlock felt his body reacting. John didn’t try to his his interest, either. 

“Give me your safeword.” John prompted. “If we are going to do this, I have to know where your limits are and a safeword would help.” 

Sherlock stared up at John with such trust, it clenched around the older man’s chest. “Do you really think we need that?”

“I’ll stop at any sign of discomfort from you, but I still would like to make sure you have that just in case.”

“Barium.”

John nodded and gradually slipped into a different role. 

“Tell me, Sherlock, why did you ignore my texts today?” John took off his suit jacket, still dressed from work. He let it drop to a heap on the floor, unconcerned about wrinkles. 

“I was doing an experiment. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just got distracted.”

“Is that experiment more important than making sure I don’t worry about you? What good am I if I can’t make sure my boy is safe and taken care of?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Sherlock adopted a child-like pose on the bed, covering his face with one hand and dropping his shoulders. He pushed his bottom lip out in the beginning threats of a pout. 

“Sherlock, you had me worried about you. I nearly waited by the door of Speedy’s for you to open it just to make sure you were ok.”

“It was just a mistake. I won’t let it happen again.” Sherlock peeked out from behind his arm to see John watching him, displeasure obvious on his face. 

“What if something had happened to you?” John slid off of Sherlock’s hips to the floor. The other man quickly followed, resting on his knees in front of where John stood. 

“I was safe, though. You put me in the cab and paid and took such good care of me.” Sherlock slid forwards a bit, he braced his hands on the floor and buried his nose in John’s crotch. He breathed in the smell of the detergent from John’s dry cleaners, the lingering scents of the hospital, and the musk under it all. 

John was half-hard beneath his mouth, and Sherlock opened to run his tongue along the outline of his growing erection. He dampened the suit trousers, but John didn’t seem to mind. 

“Let me make it up to you, Daddy.” Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes. His dry lips catching against the fabric as he spoke. “I can apologize and do better next time.”

“It was such a simple request.” John was pleased with this result, but couldn’t help see how far he could push it. “Do you not want to be a good boy for me? Did you do it on purpose, Sherlock?” 

“No! Never.” Sherlock pressed his face further into John’s crotch, hands coming up to undo the button and zip. “Please, let me.” Sherlock was practically keening. 

He withdrew John’s cock and immediately tried to take too much into his mouth at once. He pulled off, sputtering.

“Try again, love. Slowly now, give Daddy a show.” John rested a hand around the back of his head and guided him back forwards. 

This time, Sherlock went slower. He sucked and teased so well that John knew the initial fluke was all for play. Sherlock dragged his tongue up the length of John before dipping his head to lick at each of his testicles in turn. 

“Like this?” Sherlock asked. He looked up adoringly and John nodded. 

“You’re doing so well,” he praised, “Do you want it like this? If you finish me too quickly, I won’t be able to fuck you. Do you want that, or do you want to keep doing this?” 

Sherlock noted the choice. Even like this, wrapped in their game, there was the choice. 

“Please let me taste you, Daddy. I want you to come so I can taste you.” 

“Of course, my little love. Of course.” 

Sherlock went back to sucking John. He pulled his trousers and pants all the way down so they pooled at John’s ankles. 

He took John progressively deeper until his nose was tickled by the blonde hairs at the base of John’s cock. Fingers were pushed into his hair and John groaned. 

“Yes, baby. That’s so good. You’re so beautiful. Look at me.” 

Sherlock looked up and met John’s eyes. John watched him with dilated pupils and adoration. He thrust forwards into Sherlock’s mouth slightly. Letting his jaw go slack and trying to mentally suppress his gag reflex, Sherlock raised his hands to settle on John’s hips, relinquishing control of the pace. 

John’s fingers tightened in Sherlock’s curls, pulling just shy of painful. He used it as leverage to begin slowly fucking Sherlock’s mouth. 

“I’m gonna come, Sherlock. Are you ready?” John panted. 

Moments later he shuddered and gripped Sherlock’s hair, forcing him to take John’s cock as he came. Sherlock swallowed all he could, but still some leaked out the corners of his mouth. Come mixed with his own drool leaked out the corners and dripped onto Sherlock’s now incredibly constricting trousers. 

John withdrew his cock and smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s head. He pulled up his trousers before turning his attention to the man still kneeling at his feet. 

“Are you ok, my love?” John asked, ever concerned. He swiped his thumb through some of the streaks on Sherlock’s face, pushing the come and spit back into his mouth. Sherlock greedily sucked at John’s thumb, making sure it was clean. 

“You did so well. I’m pleased with you.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes at John’s soothing tone. His attention was bothered by his own need to come, but Sherlock trusted that if John thought he had earned it, he would not leave Sherlock unsatisfied. 

“Come on with me now. Up you get.” John hauled Sherlock to his feet and guided him to the bathroom. 

There were two sinks before a huge, brightly lit mirror. A shower stood in the corner a meter or so from the sinks, and a claw-footed bathtub big enough for three people was settled against the opposite wall. 

John guided Sherlock to the sink. He wet a flannel and gently swiped it across Sherlock’s face. He was careful to not scrape too hard, but still get Sherlock’s face free of any sticky residue. 

When that was finished, John began unbuckling Sherlock’s belt and pushed his trousers down to mid-thigh. John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand. 

“You didn’t think I would leave you like this, did you love?” 

“I-I wasn’t sure, Daddy.” Sherlock stuttered out. 

“I wouldn’t leave my boy aching like this. Look at you, so gorgeous and responsive.” John leaned forwards and gave Sherlock a filthy kiss. He tasted himself in Sherlock’s mouth and saved that thought for later. “I bet when I fuck you, I can make you come just from being inside you. My delicate boy doesn’t even need to be touched if this is how hard you are just from sucking me off.” 

“Anything, Daddy,” Sherlock gasped. “Anything for you.”

John turned them so he stood behind Sherlock, his hand reached around. Sherlock’s hands grabbed the edge of the sink and he ducked his head to watch John tease at his foreskin. His burn blisters twinged at the stretched skin, but Sherlock ignored the pain. 

“Look in the mirror, Sherlock. We can see ourselves like this.” 

Sherlock obediently raised his head and took in the image before him. His lips were red and swollen. John stood behind and just to the right of him so that his view wasn’t blocked. His hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, unseen beneath the countertop. 

“Focus on your face. I want you to watch yourself when I make you come. Can you do that for me, Sherlock? Because I’m so excited to watch you.” 

Sherlock nodded. John increased the pressure and sped up his strokes. Sherlock pushed his hips into John’s hand and let out a deep, guttural groan when he came. Threads hit the sink, but most landed against the cabinet. 

Sherlock slumped against John, the shorter man easily holding Sherlock’s thin frame up. 

He waited a moment for Sherlock to stand independently. He re-wetted the flannel and wiped down the cabinet and his hand. Finally, he pulled Sherlock’s shirt off of him and had him step out of his trousers. John followed suit. He made sure there wasn’t any fluid left on either of their bodies. After a quick check of the bandages on Sherlock hand, John was satisfied. 

John led Sherlock to the bed. Turning down the sheets, John climbed in first and gestured for Sherlock to follow. Eagerly Sherlock curled up into John’s side. Pulling his limbs together and looking impossibly small for how tall he was. 

John stroked a hand through Sherlock hair and fluttered kisses against those curls. 

“I didn’t pin you as the particularly cuddly type,” John observed. 

“Piss off,” Sherlock replied, snuggling his face into John’s neck. He could feel John’s laugh and the rumbles made him smile. He did that. The joy that John was feeling right now made Sherlock swell with pride at being the cause of John’s laughter. 

“Stay the night with me?” John asked. 

“I work tomorrow.” 

“I’ll take you to work.” 

“Ok.” 

They stayed like that, naked and pressed together. Even during the night when John was asleep and it got too warm, Sherlock didn’t think for a moment that he should separate himself. He watched John sleep, the creases in his forehead settling and giving him a more youthful expression. Sherlock knew he was being ridiculous. He hardly knew this man. However, something pulled at him, something possessive and dark. No one would take John from him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's hand healed quickly, and he began steadily dating John. They saw one another frequently, twice or even three times a week. John would stop in to get his morning coffee and Sherlock would make it and try to deduce what it was that John had planned for them that evening. If there were no plans, John wouldn’t make an appearance that morning. 

***

Once it was the opera. 

“I hope you are free tonight,” John said that morning. 

“You know I am.”

“I just like to check, make sure I’m not keeping you from anything important.”

“You’re important.” Sherlock truly didn’t have any plans to set aside for John. He never cancelled on mates going to the pub because there were no mates and he hated pubs. 

“You’re lovely,” John beamed. “Where are we going tonight, Sherlock?” 

John would always ask, so proud when Sherlock was able to deduce it. The longest it ever took was three tries, and even then John was patient as equally as Sherlock was frustrated with himself. This time, though, it was obvious. 

“The opera.” Sherlock smiled confidently. He handed John his usual coffee and graciously received John’s praise. 

“Right you are. I got us a box. Bought up all four tickets.” Sherlock looked confused for a moment, so John clarified. “I didn’t invite anyone else. I just don’t want us sitting with strangers for this particular performance.” 

Sherlock nodded. He kept his wandering imagination in check, not wanting to think about why John sought privacy. The last thing he needed was to get flushed at work. 

“Can I pick you up at 5?” John asked. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

“We’ll get dinner as well, so come hungry.” 

Sherlock smiled and didn’t voice his dirty thoughts. 

Promptly at 5pm, John pulled up. Sometimes he drove his own car. On this particular occasion, he was being driven in a large black Range Rover. The windows were darkly tinted. If the make of the car didn’t give it away, Sherlock might have assumed Mycroft used his spectacularly bad timing to send a car. 

The driver got out and opened the back door. 

“Sir,” he said with a nod when Sherlock brushed past him to slide in. The door shut behind him and John gave him a lingering once over. 

“You look amazing,” John greeted.

“As do you.” Sherlock slid all the way over so he was seated in the middle, right next to John. 

“Do you intend to buckle your seatbelt?”

“Make me.” Sherlock licked his lips.

John loved a challenge. He shot a hard stare at the driver. “Go.” 

Attention diverted back to Sherlock, John unfastened his own seatbelt and pushed Sherlock to lay flat along the back seat. He was too tall to be comfortable, one leg on the ground and the other braced awkwardly against the door. If Sherlock’s head knocked against the other door it barely registered.

John was crawling up Sherlock’s body, pulling out his neatly tucked in shirt and licked up the hairs that teased above his waistline in the sharp V of seemingly malnourished hipbones. His tongue dipped into Sherlock’s belly button and the younger man’s hands went up over his head to grip the handle. 

“Lock the doors,” John demanded. The driver quickly obeyed, the resulting click ringing out somewhere to the left of Sherlock’s head. 

John began to slowly unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, continuing to kiss his way up the long torso. 

“I thought we were going to the opera?” Sherlock teased. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Dinner first, then the opera,” John replied in between kisses. 

“Am I to be dinner?”

“Fuck yes.”

John went back down to undo Sherlock’s trousers. He worked his mouth over Sherlock’s cock eagerly. 

Sherlock gasped out, “Please, Daddy. Please suck me.” 

John hummed in response. He kept the pace fast, not relenting until Sherlock was a begging mess. The orgasm made Sherlock’s limbs shudder and he pressed his foot hard against the door, his hands desperately clinging to  the handle of the other. 

After Sherlock had settled, he reached for John, intending to reciprocate the gesture. 

John stopped his efforts. “Not right now, love. Save something for later. You bounce back much faster than I do.”

Sherlock blushed prettily. “Of course, Daddy.” 

***

Another time, it was for lunch. 

John waited patiently in line for his coffee. The opera was a week or so ago, still fresh in Sherlock’s mind. At the sight of John, Sherlock got a look in his eye. This reaction did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson or Molly. 

“So you’ve got a bit of a crush?” Molly asked teasingly. 

“Sod off,” Sherlock said cooly, turning to her. He hadn’t forgotten how she flirted with John. 

Molly only gave him a knowing smile. “I’m not looking to take him or something. It is just lovely to see you actually have someone. I did wonder, when you first got here. Shady backstory, well no backstory, really. Brilliant and aloof. You were like a character from one of my books.” 

“Molly,” Sherlock cut in. “As interesting as it is to hear about your love life with cheap paperback romance novels, I have a customer to attend to.” 

Sherlock brushed past her to where John had taken a seat. The table was quickly becoming John’s usual. If anyone else tried to sit there when Sherlock was working, he would shoo them away with a spilled pitcher of milk or a particularly personal deduction. 

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Sherlock asked with mock hospitality. Well, no so mock when it came to John. He was brandishing an ordering pad, a pen, and an expression better fit for an American hospitality advertisement. 

“Good morning, darling,” John beamed. “I don’t need anything now, but I was wondering if you would join me for lunch? Unfortunately there are no evening plans for you to guess correctly today.” 

“Of course I’ll have lunch with you.”

“You’re off at noon?” John asked as if he didn’t already know Sherlock’s work schedule. 

“Can we do lunch at one?” Sherlock countered. 

“One works for me.” 

John stood and left a fiver on the table. “Thanks for taking such good care of me. I think this is my favorite spot for coffee in the morning.” 

Sherlock pocketed the money and bit his lip coyly. “I’m so glad to hear it, sir. I look forward to seeing much more of you in the future.” 

John grinned at the implication before heading out into the crowds of people pushing past. 

Lunch was a simple affair. Sandwiches outside a small café not unlike Speedy’s, but closer to John’s office. They talked and joked with one another. John repeatedly asked Sherlock to show off for him. Deducing everything from a child to a granny, Sherlock happily fulfilled the request. They held hands across the table and Sherlock couldn’t remember feeling quite so content. 

In the time that he had known John, Sherlock hadn’t been inclined to score. Cocaine was at the back of his mind. The only things that concerned Sherlock were working at Speedy’s to get his job back with Lestrade, experimenting, and John. The older man still had no idea about Sherlock’s vice. For all John was aware, his brilliant boyfriend dropped out of university simply because it didn’t suit him. Sherlock wanted to keep it like that. Unfortunately, Mycroft was very good at doing the exact opposite of what Sherlock wanted. 

***

Their time together didn’t go unnoticed. It was during his usual evening walk home from the hospital that John was picked up by a sleek black car. 

“A warehouse is very James Bond,” John said to the dark, empty space. It seemed empty save for the girl who rode with him the car and himself. John knew better. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Watson,” a voice said from about five meters away. “Won’t you come and join me?”

A light flickered on and a man was illuminated underneath it. He wore a perfectly fitted charcoal suit and was leaning on an umbrella. John wouldn’t be surprised if they used the same tailor. John walked forwards so he was just outside the circle of light surrounding the other man. 

“Mycroft Holmes, I assume?” John asked politely. The light above him was switched on. Pity, John quite liked being the one shrouded in shadows. 

Mycroft inclined his head. “The very same. I see Sherlock has forewarned you of my little interview.” 

“Something like that. He used less tender words.” There was a smile in John’s voice, amusement with the entire situation. The corners of Mycroft’s lips turned down at that. 

“I supposed it would be rather pointless asking you about the nature of your relationship with my brother.” 

“We’re in a relationship. Committed, exclusive, whatever you would like to call it. I’ve no interest in anyone except him, and he doesn’t seem to have any interest in anyone except me.” John was proud of that. Mycroft could hear him practically oozing with self-satisfaction. 

“And what exactly do you know of my brother?” 

“Probably less than you in some regard, more than you in others. I don’t see how that matters.” John was becoming less and less inclined to spend time in the warehouse. “Why didn’t you just phone me? Or better yet, phone Sherlock.” 

“Would that he’d answer.” 

“You’d be surprised. He’s told me a lot about you.”

“Has he now?” 

“Quite. Enjoying your diet?” 

Mycroft gave a pinched smile at this. “Ah, I see. Only the good things, that’s Sherlock.” 

John nodded, he mentally gave himself a tally on some kind of polite, English insult scoreboard. 

“I would be interested in keeping up with my brother,” Mycroft said delicately. “You spend far more time with him. Your assistance in this matter would not go unrewarded.” 

“Unrewarded? To spy on Sherlock and report back?” John asked, still amused. 

“You are a wealthy man, Doctor Watson. But I have something to offer that even your money can’t buy.”

“And what would that be?” 

“Your sister’s sobriety.”

John tensed up at that, the slightest sentence hit a nerve. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” He didn’t raise his voice. Rather, the opposite occurred. John’s words were barely above a whisper. “I’ve been trying to get her sober for years and you come in here waving your power around like some flashy sports car. You think you can fix her, go ahead. Be my guest. But I won’t jeopardize what I have with Sherlock to do it. I’ve given enough for her. I won’t give him.” 

“A touching speech, Doctor. I wonder, if you knew my brother’s purpose for leaving university whether your sentiments would remain the same.” Mycroft clicked the end of his umbrella on the pavement. The sound reverberated and the engine from the car John arrived in revved on.

Mycroft gave the slightest smile. “Good day, Doctor Watson.” 

John knew a dismissal when he heard one. Purely for pride’s sake and to get the last word, he pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft saying, “You’d have to do better than that to get me away from him. I’m much better at this game than you seem to think.” 

John turned on his heel before Mycroft could respond. He slid into the car and pulled the door shut with a bit more force than necessary. 

“Take me to him,” John said. There was no question who he was referring to. 

John left the car and the woman who was practically glued to her mobile without so much as a by-your-leave. He shut the door, gentler this time. He had calmed significantly during the ride to Baker Street. 

John rang the bell, waited a moment, and rang it again. He knew Sherlock was never bothered to answer the door unless John texted him ahead of time. 

Sure enough, it was Mrs. Hudson’s smiling face that greeted John. 

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“And you, Mrs. Hudson. How is your hip doing?” 

“Wonderfully, Doctor! The herbal soothers you gave me are working like a charm. The silly night chills are even gone.” 

John wrapped her in a one-armed hug. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. Is Sherlock in?”

“He is. He is having a bit of a go on something in the kitchen.” Mrs. Hudson grabbed John’s arm before he could head up the stairs. “I was just wondering, dear. Do you mind changing a lightbulb for me in the kitchen? It’ll only be a moment and Sherlock is always so busy. I hate to be a bother and ask him.” 

John made a slightly pinched expression at the idea that Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson the impression he wouldn’t help her. 

“Certainly,” John said. “Where is it?” 

After changing the lightbulb and sitting for a cup of tea and chat about the latest gossip from Mrs. Hudson’s bridge group, John was free to go upstairs. 

He pushed the door to Sherlock’s flat open, knowing the man never bothered to lock it. 

Sherlock’s head snapped up. He was in pyjamas, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Lab goggles matted down his curls and big yellow rubber gloves were holding his sleeves in place. 

“Hello, John.” Sherlock went back to his beaker, closely examining the contents. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“No bother. I didn’t tell you I was coming.” 

Sherlock, satisfied with whatever it was, set the glassware aside to address John fully. “I don’t have any food in the fridge.” He gestured to the table, littered with similar chemical equipment. “This is rather time sensitive.” 

John could tell Sherlock was doing his best to communicate “leave me alone” without actually verbalizing it. 

“Carry on. Will it be done sometime within the next two hours?” John knew that experiments were a near impossible thing to pull Sherlock away from. He also knew it was huge that he was even allowed acknowledgement and some form of explanation. 

“I think so, yes.” 

“Then I can wait for you.” John sat himself down in the comfortable red chair that had gradually become his. He pulled a book from the stack at random and checked the title — _Decoding Reality: The Universe as Quantum Information_ by Vlatko Vedral. John shrugged and opened to the first page. 

An hour in and John was dozing in the chair, the book forgotten in his lap. Sherlock watched as the blonde head gradually dipped and shot back up only to slowly dip again. Soon, John gave in and his light snores reached the kitchen. 

Sherlock set aside his experiment, concluding that maybe it wasn’t as time-sensitive as he thought. Stopping had nothing to do with how lovely John looked lit only by the standing lamp. He merely miscalculated the time needed for the toe to ferment. 

Sherlock set everything aside, unrolled his sleeves, and thoroughly washed his hands. He stood in the doorway for a moment debating the best course of action for waking John up. He was a soldier who came back with a tremor. There was the potential for PTSD and Sherlock wanted to avoid triggering that at all costs. 

He settled for simply taking a seat across from John and waiting. After only a few minutes of staring, John began to blink awake. 

“Are you watching me?” John asked blearily. 

“No.”

Sherlock got up and took his book from John’s lap to replace in its position in the stack. 

“You were,” John teased. 

“Why were you with Mycroft?” Sherlock changed the subject. He drew his knees up to his chest and his stare shifted into accusing. 

“How?” 

“Dirt on your shoes.”

“Nice.” 

“Thanks, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“He tried to buy information off of me.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s phrasing. “He tried to ‘buy’ you? But you have money. Surely he knows th— Oh!” 

John simply nodded, sure that Sherlock had reached the right conclusion. 

“Her vice is alcohol. He was going to take it away.” Sherlock dropped his eyes into his lap, thinking and muttering to himself. “How? How? Alcohol. Control the substance control the addiction. Sellers. He’d buy the sellers and make sure she couldn’t.” 

“Is that really how he intended to do it?” John was curious what method Mycroft thought would work better that all the ones he had tried. Admittedly, he had never tried to buy the loyalty of all the liquor sellers in the Western world. It was a good move.

“In the most likely scenario. You’ve already tried rehabs. I’d bet you sent her to the whole gambit of them, trashy to top dollar.” Sherlock let his feet drop to the ground. His leg began bouncing erratically. 

“What is it?” John could feel Sherlock’s agitation. 

“‘When is it?’ would be a more appropriate question.” 

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” 

“When is the first report due?” Sherlock spit the words out like they hurt his tongue. It was horrible to think that Mycroft found the weakest point of John. John was supposed entirely his. 

“I’m not reporting to your brother.” 

Sherlock’s venomous thoughts halted abruptly. “Say that again.” 

“I’m not reporting what you do or anything about us to your brother. It is a slimy, creepy request to begin with.”

“But Harry?” Sherlock let his legs carry him out of his chair and onto the floor at John’s feet. “You have a way to finally help her definitively.” 

John sank his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and smiled as the younger man automatically tilted his head into the touch. Sherlock’s shoulder moved to rest on John’s knee; he was practically purring. 

“I have tried to help her so many times. I nearly didn’t go into the military just to stay and babysit her. She threw away a marriage to an amazing woman for alcohol. She shoved me as far out of her life as possible and spit at any efforts I made to rehabilitate her. Why do you think I would add you to the list of things Harry has ruined for me?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes to John’s words. Letting the unsaid emotion wash over him. It was unfamiliar, comforting, and his newest obsession. The thought that John deeply cared about him was so powerful and had such a spectacular hold on him.

“I love you,” Sherlock said. The words were deliberate, thought out, and precise. It wasn’t an accident, nor did he feel the need to take them back once they were out. Sherlock knew it was way too early in a regular relationship for such emotion to be freely professed, but it was there and he didn’t have time to wait for John to understand what that meant to him. What giving up an enormous chance at helping Harry for the sake of Sherlock meant to him. 

“I love you, too.” 

John tugged gently on Sherlock’s hair. Understanding, Sherlock crawled up to settle himself in John’s lap, a knee to either side. He cradled John’s head in each hand, like he was a delicate, precious thing that would shatter beneath him at any moment. 

The kiss was soft, barely a brush of lips. 

“Do you want to play, my love?” John was teasing his fingers over Sherlock’s waist, waiting for him to ask for it. 

“Please.” Sherlock’s reply spilled out like a prayer. “Please take me, Daddy.” 

“Go get ready for me.” John gave Sherlock a gentle nudge and the younger man eagerly went to his bedroom, clothing dropping off of him with each step. 

John waited a bit. He looked over the shelves on Sherlock’s many bookcases. He poked his nose into a few things in the kitchen. Only a few, though. Most of it looked toxic or the exact place he would want to keep his nose out of. 

When he finally stepped into Sherlock’s bedroom, he had to pause and appreciate the scene laid out for him. Sherlock had pulled the duvet and all the covers off of the bed. They were discarded in a giant heap. The man himself was face down on the bed, his arse in the air — a shining buttplug the center of attention. 

“Oh god. Look at you. Just fucking look at you.” John pulled his jacket and waistcoat off and put them on hangers in Sherlock’s closet. Building up the tension in the room was difficult and delicious. John hung his trousers in the closet as well. Shoes and socks and pants were left beside the heap of sheets. 

John kneeled on the bed just behind Sherlock. He gripped the base of the plug and gently moved it inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock dropped his head and groaned at the feeling, his hips pushing back to chase the feeling. John rested a hand against Sherlock’s right cheek to stop the motion while his left continued to tease. When he withdrew the plug and dropped it onto the floor, John pushed two then three fingers into Sherlock. 

Satisfied with the stretch, he bent over and kissed each dimple in Sherlock’s lower back. 

“Daddy?” Sherlock said into the pillow. His voice was pitched slightly higher. John wasn’t sure if it was from the teasing or their game. Frankly, he didn’t really care. 

“Yes my little love?” 

“Please touch me.” 

John added more lube before pushing his fingers into Sherlock once again. “Like this?” 

“I need you. I need more.” 

Both of them blood tested ages ago, John decided tonight was fine to forgo a condom. He turned Sherlock onto his side before grabbing the bottle of lube and spreading a generous amount on his cock. John fit behind Sherlock as the big spoon and gradually slid in. Sherlock tossed his head back so that the curls tickled John’s nose and got into his mouth. 

Sputtering, John began to rock his hips. One hand was trapped beneath their bodies, the other used to hold Sherlock in place. He moved steadily. Their positions didn’t afford for hard thrusts. That was fine, though. This was something more intimate. 

John kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck and the other man automatically tucked his chin to his chest as a request for another. 

“Do you like that?” 

“Your kisses tickle, Daddy.” Sherlock smiled around the words. 

John switched their positions so Sherlock was astride him, and John could lean his back against the headboard. Sherlock knew the change was coming. John always preferred to watch Sherlock’s orgasm on his face. 

“Take what you need,” John said. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock and moved to the pace of Sherlock’s hips rising and falling over John’s cock. 

Usually impatient and demanding, Sherlock rode John slowly. He only sped up when the anticipation became too much. Sharp slaps ringing out through the bedroom as Sherlock’s arse connected with John’s thighs. 

And then there was come on John’s hand and his chest. His head made a loud thud against the headboard as he saw stars. 

Sherlock rode him through it, a litany of “Thank-you, Daddy” gasped into John’s mouth. 

Cooled off, cleaned off, and settled in, Sherlock realized something. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” Sherlock asked. 

“Considering I’m not inclined to go anywhere else, I would say so.” John was stretched out, naked, under the replaced sheets and duvet. He followed Sherlock’s lead and opted out of sleeping in his pants.

“Don’t you work tomorrow?”

“Don’t you?” 

“I can ask off much easier than you can.” 

“I’m a surgeon who owns his own surgery. I think I’m pretty good to call out a day.”

“What about me?”

“Oh, you have to stay in bed all day tomorrow.” John curled closer to Sherlock. They were lying face to face, but John moved so their noses were practically brushing. “Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid. You’ve come down with a nasty cold all of a sudden.” 

“Have I?” Sherlock played innocently. “I better call a doctor! I wonder where I’ll find one at this late notice?”

“Not a clue, darling. Whoever you find at this late hour must be shite.” 

Sherlock laughed at that and John kissed him in the middle of it for the sake of being able to. 

On the tip of John’s tongue was the question that Mycroft had hinted at. _Sherlock, why did you drop out of Cambridge?_ He didn’t want to ruin this moment, though. If Sherlock hadn’t told him the reason, then it likely wasn’t something he would be happy about. That or it was adjust atoner thing that Sherlock didn’t see as particularly relevant.

Instead, John asked, “How do you feel about lace?” 

“Ask a better question,” Sherlock commanded. 

John huffed a laugh, but took a moment to rethink his phrasing. “If I bought you lace underthings, would you enjoy wearing them?” 

Sherlock developed a dark look in his eye and a lump of cotton in his throat.

After a moment, he replied, “Is this something you’ve been thinking about?” 

“Yes, but I wanted your opinion on it before getting you anything. I don’t want to give you something you won’t also enjoy.” 

“I think I would like anything you gave me.” 

“You didn’t seem to enjoy that James Bond box set.” 

“It was shite.” 

“It wasn’t, but now I feel the need to ask before showering my lovely boy with gifts.” 

Sherlock scrunched up his nose like he did when they played, his face miming thinking. “I would enjoy it.” 

“Are you picky about such things?” 

“I guess we’ll find out. Nothing neon colored. Preferably darker hues.” 

“I think I can make that work.” 

John thought again about asking the question. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t say anything about it. 

“One more thing,” John said. “Tomorrow, I need you to go to Mrs. Hudson’s at some point and tell her that if she ever needs help around the house that you’re happy to do so. For her to not hesitate with asking after your help with any task that she can’t do on her own.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock pushed his lip out petulantly. 

“Because she is a lovely and very capable lady who, despite her independence, still might need help with things. You are fit and only twenty years of age. Do the math.” 

“I’ll just get Mycroft to send one of his minions to do it for me.” 

“You’ll do it yourself like a friendly, neighborly tenant.” 

Sherlock’s pout became more pronounced, but John refused to back down. Finally, they agreed that Sherlock would offer his assistance and if it was something that he really, genuinely couldn’t do, then he would ring John up to do it. John knew this would just become Sherlock ringing him to do everything. He didn’t necessarily mind. 

“I don’t want those people around her,” John justified. “Mycroft’s people are heavies. They aren’t made to screw in lightbulbs for old ladies.” 

***

“I have a present for you,” John said two days later in lieu of an introduction. 

The weather was creeping to the end of October and the chill had started to sink into all the constantly shaded corners of London. 

Sherlock was on his back on the couch; his feet bare and the rest of him wrapped in the sheet he had stolen from John’s bed. He tipped his head back to look upside down over the arm of the sofa. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked curiously. “No! Let me guess.” 

John pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and sat down in an armchair with his cup of tea. He patiently waited for Sherlock to think of an answer. 

“Did you get me a car?” 

“Why would I get you a car?” 

“I’m establishing a baseline for this particular round of you lying to me.”

John made a face at this. “I don’t lie to you.” 

“Sorry,” Sherlock corrected. “Deliberate untruths.” 

“It’s not a deliberate untruth if I tell you your guess was wrong when you aren’t even supposed to be guessing.It is a desperate attempt to maintain a surprise for my desperately gorgeous, twat of a boyfriend. ” 

Sherlock smiled. It looked childlike on his face upside down as he was. His curls had grown out; John repeatedly asking that he wait just a few more days before getting a haircut. 

“What about this time?” Sherlock prodded. 

“You can guess, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.” 

“Good. No need to try and gauge a baseline for your mood today.” 

John sipped his tea, thinking a moment on what Sherlock would classify his mood today as. 

Sherlock watched John closely. He briefly closed his eyes and catalogued what they had done so far and what that might imply was coming. 

“Am I allowed to ask for hints?” Sherlock asked. He pulled his head back into a proper position, now unable to see John. It was fine for about three seconds. After which, Sherlock decided he didn’t like not being able to see John. 

Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs, the sheet slipping to puddle in his lap. John surveyed his imprints from the night before. Light bruising littered Sherlock’s collarbones and two large circles branded either side of his neck by the pulse points. There were red lines where John had accidentally scratched Sherlock whilst trying to grab at his waist. 

John knew Sherlock was watching him as he surveyed the marks. 

“Do try and remain on topic, John.” Sherlock lifted the sheet to cover himself back up. 

“Don’t do that,” John complained. 

Sherlock dropped it back down in a huff. “Please focus. I’m trying to figure out what the surprise is.” 

“You get three guesses.” 

“The car guess doesn’t count!” Sherlock said in a rush. 

“It most certainly does.” 

Sherlock threw his arms out and then slumped over in a most spectacular huff. 

John grinned. “Just guess. I’m getting impatient.” 

“How do you think I feel?” 

“Petulant.” 

“You are taking me to pick up a new suit and then on a private boat for dinner and to retire to the cabin. It doesn’t dock until tomorrow morning.” Sherlock looked very pleased with himself. 

“How many times have I told you to not go through my emails!” John complained halfheartedly. 

“I didn’t!” 

“Then how did you know?” 

Sherlock didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “I went through your secretary’s emails.” 

John laughed at that. The sound was still the most amazing that Sherlock had ever heard. 

“I’ll tell her she needs to keep them under lock an key.” 

“She does. It took me a while to get into them. You should really think about firing her so Mycroft can scoop up a talent like that. He loves to foster new minions.”

“Irene is the best secretary I’ve ever had.” 

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. 

“What’s wrong with her?” John asked. He set his now empty mug aside and moved to join Sherlock on the couch. 

Sherlock tucked his feet under John’s thighs, bracing against the arm of the sofa before answering. “I don’t like her.” 

“Yes, but why?” John stroked a gently hand up Sherlock’s calf, softly kneading the muscle. 

“I don’t like her skirts.” 

“What would you know about skirts?” 

“That they don’t need to be that tight when she leans over your desk.” 

John got a glint in his eye and looked directly at Sherlock. “Why, Sherlock Holmes, are you jealous?” 

“Of _her_? No! I have no reason to be.”

“You don’t.” John continued to rub Sherlock’s calf. “I made sure the suit will hug your arse in all the right places.” 

Indeed it did. The suit that John had made was gorgeous. It was modeled after the crispest of the latest styles and designed around Sherlock’s best features. It was warm and streamlined. John got Sherlock’s measurements from the young man’s own tailor and had them sent to a different shop.

When Sherlock turned around before the mirrors, he took in the lines of the suit, pressed to perfection. John was busy complimenting all who worked on it and paying for the bill. He got distracted watching Sherlock, and the clerk had to repeat his request for John’s signature on the receipt. 

“Of course,” John said snapping back to attention. “Sorry there, chap. I didn’t hear you.” 

“No matter, sir,” the older store clerk said. He had to be in his early sixties. “He does look distracting, after all.” 

“That he does,” John agreed. The clerk gave him a wink, and John turned to go stand beside Sherlock to admire the suit.

John took Sherlock’s hand in his. 

“Are you ready to go, or do you want to continue standing here fueling your vanity?” John asked. 

“If you want to be technical about it, you’re fueling my vanity.” Sherlock buttoned and unbuttoned the jacket repeatedly, trying to decide which way he liked better. 

John tugged on his hand. “C’mon. I need a nap before dinner and our late night.” 

“You’re so fragile,” Sherlock teased. 

“Watch your tongue, young man.” 

“I’d rather you watch it for me.”

John tilted his head slightly back to look at Sherlock. “Did you hear that on telly or something?” 

“No.” 

“You did. You stole that from some Eastenders shite.” John raised Sherlock’s hand and kissed it. “Don’t worry, love. I might be older than you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you.” 

“I never implied that you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

They walked out of the shop to catch a cab home. 

That evening, dressed to the nines, John led Sherlock onto the deck of a mid-sized ship. It was lit by fairy lights and a table was set up. The plastic hangings were rolled up, but could be let down at a moment’s notice should the rain come. 

“Lovely to meet you sirs,” a man with a white beard and uniform said. “I’ll be your captain this evening. I assure you I have plenty of experience. The weather is looking pleasant, so it should be smooth sailing.” 

Sherlock didn’t react at the man saying he would be their captain. As far as he was concerned, John was the only captain on the ship. 

“Thank you,” John replied cordially. “I’m very much looking forward to the evening.” 

“The cabin is down those stairs there. The loo is attached. If you need anything, there is a small staff on board who can assist you.” 

John settled an arm in the small of Sherlock’s waist. “We appreciate the hospitality.”

He guided Sherlock to the table, pulling out a chair before taking the opposite seat himself. 

“This is lovely,” Sherlock complimented. The ship lurched a bit and they were sailing into the Thames. The boat was due to just make circles around the water, and the lights from London kept the way well lit. 

They ate dinner in relative silence. Both were engrossed in the simple enjoyment of one another’s company. Dinner was seafood inspired, and delicious. John pulled all the stops to the point where Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if fireworks burst out making the shape of their initials in the sky. They didn’t, of course. Sherlock knew the gesture was too ostentatious for John to indulge in. 

Plates were cleared away and dessert quickly shared between them. John led Sherlock to the cabin. 

They undressed one another slowly. Every button slid out of place was done so with care, each item removed carefully hung in the closet. Tonight was about taking your time, soaking it all in so to speak. 

John devoured Sherlock. He silenced his mind and mouth. Their gasps and moans became louder and softer with each thrust and change of position. 

John ended up sitting with his back to the headboard again with Sherlock in his lap. It was the younger man’s favorite position and they indulged in it whenever possible.

“I love you,” John promised, lips pressed to Sherlock’s chest. 

“I know, I know. I do.” Fell out of Sherlock’s mouth between harsh breathing and gasps when his prostate was touched. 

Sherlock came first, John usually made sure of it. He chased his own pleasure afterwards with Sherlock tired and spent on his back, legs wrapped tight around John to encourage every hard thrust. John’s rhythm matched the rocking boat. 

**Author's Note:**

> SugarDaddy!John is my newst obsession. Characters not mine. Not beta'd or britpicked. If you'd like the job, send me a message. I have a tumblr over here: http://questionsleftunanswered.tumblr.com
> 
> Currently paused so I can focus on my NaNoWriMo. This story will continue after November. Thank-you.


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